


Cock, Ass, and Sticks

by saint_troll



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Implied Insertion Kink, M/M, drumsticks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-10
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saint_troll/pseuds/saint_troll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray's more than a little interested in the possibilities...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cock, Ass, and Sticks

**Author's Note:**

> Transferring work from my LiveJournal: [Troll St. Troll](http://trollsttroll.livejournal.com)
> 
> Inspired by my friend Shadow Hive's fic, [One Down](http://shadow-hive.livejournal.com/577700.html) over on LiveJournal.

Eyes still half lidded and blood coursing through my veins in a steady, near frantic pulse, I watched Bob tuck his cock back into his pants and walk out of the bathroom. My hands fell to my side as I settled against the wall; bare ass and spent. I grinned upon finding the stick I'd stolen... just under my palm. Picking it up, I ran my fingers over its unmarred edges and envisioned it post-show... dented, scraped, well-used; that is, if it even survived. No, that wasn't this one's fate. This one was a keeper. For what had went down because of it, it deserved nothing less than to be a cherished trophy of a life experience I never actually thought would happen.   
  
The stick clattered to the floor as I shifted to pull my pants up and over my ass. Shit, my hands and thighs were shaking. That good kind of shaking that happens after you cum, but are still so damn turned on you think you might just crawl out of your skin... that kind of shaking, you know? It was a bit of a feat, but I managed to tuck myself away. Retrieving the stick from the floor, I slid it under the waistband of my jeans just over my ass. I'd have to be stealthy transferring it to a safer, more private location before show, but I'd manage. I would.   
  
Rubbing my hand over my torso, I bit my lip and hissed at the now chilly, wet press of fabric against my chest. Shit, if Bob had any idea what he did to me? ...fuck.   
  
It's like... a guy has depth. I have depth, I do. But the world presents me with this perfect fucking specimen and I'm suppose to really think about anything else besides cock, ass, and sticks? You've got to be kidding me. It's all well and good... I can focus... until Bryar fucking shows up. I don't know how many times I've played through the same levels over and over again on my DS just because he's that damn distracting. It's a near miracle Frank and Gee haven't kicked my ass for some of the shit I've been slipping up with on stage. My saving grace is muslce memory. Seriously. My hands know what to do even if every other molecule in my body is chanting a steady chorus of  _his_  name.  
  
Finally able to drag myself from the bathroom, I manuever past the crew, I head towards the dressing room. Worm flashes me a concerned look. Shit, that's right he saw me up on the stage. Thinking back a bit, he's probably the one that tipped Bob off to my location. I'll have to round-about thank the guy somehow. Just subtle like... Raising my hand in a half wave, I nod at him and smile. I receive another worried look and decide to roll it improv-style and silently hold a hand over my stomach as if distressed. It's intended meaning comes off pretty clear and Worm finally nods back and returns to what he was working on before seeing me.  
  
Once in warddrobe, I retrieve my parade jacket. Inconspicuously casting my eyes towards Bob, I wait until I'm sure he's noticed that I didn't remove my shirt... just as he'd instructed... before pulling on my jacket for the show. I falter for a moment upon realize I wasn't exactly wearing the uniform pants, but after hearing Bob's chuckle reach my ears, I decide that black jeans will do just fine. I reach behind my back and make sure that the stick is still tucked away safely before turning to Gee. "... can I borrow some of that?" I ask pointing towards his stage make-up.  
  
You'd have thought I had told him that tomorrow morning was Christmas or that Warner had hired an expresso caboose with a full crew to tour with us. It was endearing, almost, how excited he got whenever one of us decided to play with his make-up with him. He patted the counterspace next to his stuff and invited me over. I spent the next half hour taping and painting skeleton eyes, a nose and teeth on my face; all the while watching Bob pace and exercise his wrists and arms in the mirror's reflection. Every once in a while, he'd catch my gaze and leer. Only, it came off more as a goofy smile.   
  
Such a display did not go overlooked and soon Frank was all over him. Literally, man. Climbing the poor guy. It was funny as hell. And comforting in a way that it was a little weird to admit to myself... because why the fuck would anything change? Yeah, my ass was still throbbing, but really, it wasn't like it had been some proclimation of love or a marriage proposal. I liked Bob. I liked him a fucking lot... beyond that... well, that type of thing was really a little too scary to ponder at the moment.  
  
By the time we were heading to the stage, stick safely stashed all covert-like in my duffelbag, I was glad for the camoflage of my guitar. Not to mention the means to expel some of the adrenalin that had been building within me since our encounter. Just watching the guy drink water backstage had my cock twitching and bad. Drinking lead to pissing and... had he seen the way I'd been looking at him when he'd gone earlier? Was he really into that...? Because that, that would just be too god damn good to be true.  
  
I ended up spending half of the show looking over my shoulder; watching him... watching him sweat as his muscles bulged in his arms and wrists flicked with each beat. And when it was my turn to sing along, I let every ounce of lust and anguish claw its way out of my body with each and every lyric.  
  
But what was to become of things after the show? Would I be rewarded for my good behavior? What was Bob going to do to me? What did I want him to do to me? Did I even have a fucking say in the matter?   
  
Worm met us as we pooled off stage in liquid seeming stream of sweat and energy. He palmed a small package of pills in my hand. I literally had to bite back my laughter upon realizing that the poor guy had went through the trouble of actually finding me a package of Pepto... shit, I must have been convincing earlier. Man, he was probably my favorite crew guy. They were all pretty damn nice... but Worm, man, he went out of his way for us. Yeah, for five stinky Jersey assholes. I don't get it either. Well, one Chi-town mofo caught up in a hell of a mess with the shoreline trash.   
  
I was still grinning like a fool when I got to the dressing room. As per the norm, the guys were up to their usual shenanigans. Frank was jumping around with so much energy that he was nearly vibrating through the floor. It'd take a few hours, but then he'd crash hard and fast and not wake up til like noon tomorrow. Well, unless, Brian had booked him for some interview gig. I was pretty sure he hadn't. The Way brothers? Apparently, Gerard was finding great joy in literally tackling his screeching brother to the ground. I had no clue what those two were up to... really. And I didn't want to ask. Dewees was essentially pacing the room... burning off energy from having to stay in one spot behind the keyboards for too long. He was almost as wild as Iero on stage... so, I could only imagine how pent up he felt. The two of us hung pretty often after gigs, but that wasn't exactly my bag or in the plans for tonight. And Bob. Fucking Bob... He'd immediately stripped off his stage outfit and was sprawled back against a boxy looking couch in jeans and a loose fitting grey hoodie; legs spread wide and those damn ear buds stuck in his ears. He met my eyes a few times as I tucked my hair behind my ears and started wiping the make up from my face; each and every time punctuating the shared gaze with a quick drummed out beat on his thigh.  
  
It was all I could do to hold back the moan building in my chest. If earlier was any indication of just how things went in the sack with Bryar, I was so down with it. Beyond reasonable infatuation even. How sick was it that instead of pissing me off when he called me a slut, like it should... all it did was make me want to beg for it even more. That wasn't me. That wasn't what type of a guy I was. Really. But apparently, blond drummers from Illinois are my weekness... my kryptonite.   
  
One by one the guys and miscellaneous crew members filtered out of the room leaving just the two of us and a mess for the venue's maintenance. And we were about to make it a hell of a lot worse...


End file.
